


Bippity Boppity Boo

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Ed-level cursing, Fluff, M/M, My Fair Lady - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jean decides he's had enough of making a fool of Kain at the damn parties they're always going to, he figures he at least knows someone who can help.</p>
<p>Only, he kinda forgot pulling secretive late nights every night with your handsome and "ostensibly" single boss might not <i>quite</i> go over so well with your boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bippity Boppity Boo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psyraah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyraah/gifts).



> For Psyraah, my internet wife and Favoc co-conspirator. Happy Birthday bae. <3

Jean Havoc stared at the door intently, trying to work up enough courage to knock.  HE had faced down certain death, had battled Homunculi, had been in war and seen death…

And here he was, defeated by a damn door.

No.  No, he was going to do this.  He was going to steel himself, lift his hand, walk in there, and—

The door burst open, nearly smacking Jean in the face, and he staggered backwards to avoid a bloody nose.

“Oh, hey, Havoc.  General Bastard’s in there, if you wanted to see him.”

“Right.”  Jean cleared his throat as he stepped aside to let Ed pass.  “Thanks, boss.”

Ed shot Jean a faux-exasperated look, as he always did when the nickname came up, before strutting off.

Jean stepped into Mustang’s office, taking a deep breath.  Mustang was ignoring his paperwork, as usual, running his fingers through his hair and fixing it as he peered into a tiny mirror.  When Jean got close enough, Mustang glanced up.

“Captain Havoc.  What do you need?”

Thank god for Mustang not beating around the bush.  Jean turned to close the door, locked it, then turned back, face solemn.  “Chief, I need some help.”

Mustang smirked.  “Havoc, the last time I helped you find a date—“

“I don’t need a date.”  Jean rolled his eyes.  No, he had one already.  His _date_ was the one who had invited him to the party—but Mustang didn’t need to know that.  Even though Jean kinda _did_ want Mustang to know that for once, Jean had a date when Mustang didn’t.  “I need to know—“  How to behave _on_ one.  “Hey, you do a lot of schmoozing at fancy parties, yeah?”

“I do my share of it, yes.”

“Well, I need to learn how to do… that sort of thing.”

“What, schmooze?”

Jean didn’t miss the wry tone in Mustang’s voice, and he scowled.  “Yeah, but not _just_ that.  I mean, I can talk at those things well enough, I guess—“  He ignored Mustang’s snort.  “—but important stuff, like manners, or _dancing_ , or… shit, did you know there are three forks at those dinner tables, and people will crucify you alive if you don’t use the right one?”

“I’m aware.”  Mustang tilted his head to the side, watching Jean consideringly.  “And what sort of parties are these?  To know, exactly, what I’ll need to be teaching you.”

That—that had been an agreement, right?  Jean couldn’t stop the grin that broke onto his face, despite the muted amusement in Roy’s eyes.  “There’s one in a couple weeks, some couple named the Wellingtons—“

“You have an invitation to the _Wellingtons’_ soirée?”

Jean didn’t appreciate the utter shock in Mustang’s eyes.  “Hey, don’t look so surprised.”

Mustang cleared his throat, grimacing slightly and looking away—and it hit Jean.   _Mustang_ hadn’t gotten an invitation!  Well wouldn’t _that_ be something nice to hold over him.

Once he had learned what he had needed, anyway.

“So, can you help me?”  Jean did his best to hide his future plans of mischief in his voice, instead putting all of his energy into looking pitiful and in need of help.  He had learned from the best; Kain would have been proud.

After a longsuffering sigh, Mustang finally replied.

“I suppose I will.”

—

Salad forks.  Soup spoons.  Tuck in your shirt, tie your tie—shit, Jean had thought the _military_ dress code was restrictive.  Who the hell cared how many buttons on your jacket?  Who the hell cared about whether or not you drank a certain wine with something?  Jean had asked Mustang once about beer—only once, and his disgusted look had quickly put an end to _that_ train of thought.  But Jean’s disgusted look when he found out about how _specifically_ you had to eat soup matched it; tilt the bowl away, keep your spoon perpendicular… just _eat your damn soup._

Mustang spent days trying to work on Jean’s accent and speech, an effort that Jean thoroughly resisted, and they compromised by agreeing that Jean would make an effort not to swear too often in polite company.

But among all the “which gifts you bring to parties” and “what to do with your napkin during meals,” Mustang introduced what was going to become the death of Jean.

Dancing.

“For someone trained in black ops and specialized combat, you’re making this a lot more difficult than it needs to be.”  Mustang glared up at Jean after yanking his foot back.  Still, Jean considered it progress; it was the first time this session that he had stepped on a foot.  And as a plus, it wasn’t his own.

“This is _different._  Not intuitive.  Combat _is!_ ”

“Combat is intuitive because you train yourself until it is.”  Mustang pulled his hand away from Jean’s shoulder, then reached out to reposition it, settling Jean’s hand on his own shoulder, and his own on Jean’s waist.  He began to step, taking the lead, and Jean quickly fell into following.  He could do that, at least.

“It’s a matter of practice,” Mustang continued, and Jean could sympathize with why Ed called him “bastard.”  He was expertly swept along, a small smirk on Mustang’s face as they watched each other.  “And if you commit to it, well, I’ve had more difficult projects.  We’ll have you a passable dancer if I have to drill you all night.”

Jean snorted, and without warning, the world tilted, and Jean’s arm darted out in alarm to sneak out around Mustang’s neck.  He clung for dear life as he was dramatically dipped backwards.

Their eyes met: Mustang’s sultry, Jean’s surprised.  What the hell was he doing?  Their faces were close, too close, and Jean’s breath caught—what was he supposed to do, he thought in a daze, with that goddamn look?

A fist pounded on the door, and Mustang yanked Jean back up, leaving his head spinning.

“That’ll be the extra help,” Roy murmured, apparently unconcerned with what had just happened—whatever _that_ was—and heading towards the door.

“Extra—“ Jean sputtered.  “What—what—hold the hell up!” he snapped, scowling, as Mustang unlocked and opened the door.  “What the—what was that?”

“What was what?”  Though Ed had asked, he didn’t seem to particularly care about the answer as he sauntered in.

“That’s the sort of thing I want you to learn,” Roy replied, ignoring Ed along with Jean.  “Do you think you can handle it?”

“You bet your ass I can,” Jean muttered, scowl deepening.

“Hey, what did he do?”  Ed’s interest seemed to have piqued a bit after not getting an answer.

“What’s he doin’ here, anyway?”  Jean eyed Roy suspiciously.

“Well, I thought it might be easier to practice with someone of a closer height.”

Jean froze.

“Closer height to… who?” he asked carefully, swallowing.

“Your date.”

“Who—who says I have a date—I’m just _going!_ ”

Ed and Mustang shot each other an exasperated look, then focused it on Jean, both motions in unison and expressions _uncannily_ similar.  Jean looked furiously between the two.

“Are you gonna tell him?”

“I suppose we could let him live in his ignorance slightly longer.”

“The hell are you two on about!”

“You’re livin’ with Fuery,” came one response, at the same time as a, “Did you really think you two could hide your relationship from me?”

Jean stared, eyes wide, panic rabbiting through him—aw, _hell_ —trying to think of something to say—

“Oh, calm the fuck down.  It’s not like we’re gonna make a big deal; after all—“

“After all,” Mustang interrupted smoothly, reaching out to gently bump Ed with an elbow.  “We understand that discretion among friends and colleagues is a desirable trait.”

“Right.”  The weak reply was all Jean could muster.

Roy straightened, clapping his hands together twice in quick succession.  “Onto practicing!  Jean, take Edward’s waist.”

—

“He’s getting better,” Ed declared, staring after Jean as he left the room to get water, letting the door swing shut behind him.  “I mean, not perfect, but he’s not as bad as you made him out to be, you fuckin’ drama queen.”

Roy snorted.  “Only due to my _impeccable_ tutelage—“

“Oh, can it.”  Ed leaned back against Roy’s desk, eyeing him.  “So…”

“So?”  Roy reached out to take Ed’s wrist, gently drawing him forward.  Ed sighed and allowed it; the shit he put up with for this man.

He placed his hand on Roy’s shoulder obligingly and, as Roy started leading him in time to the soft music playing from the phonograph, asked, “You think he’s gonna end up okay?”

“Mmm.”  Roy’s skilled steps were nothing like Jean’s, honestly, but it took years to get to that level.  “I think that with my expert tutelage—“  Ed snorted as they pulled apart in time with the rhythm.  “And with your unparalleled grace—“  Roy lifted his arm and spun Ed underneath it.  “I think he’ll be all right.”

The two of them settled back together again, Ed following effortlessly.  “Good to hear it.  So what was it that you were telling Havoc to learn?”

Roy raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer _again_ , the fucker, and Ed was just about to chew out his ass when—

The _room_ tilted, and Ed slid his arm around Roy’s neck and held fast, eyes wide as Roy’s face was suddenly _very_ close to his.

“This,” Roy murmured, eyes narrowed, perfect fucking mouth curved up in a smirk, and Ed’s throat froze.  Fuck, _fuck_ the bastard was gorgeous, every single line and angle and plane a perfect fucking combination to create something so—so unbelievably _perfect_ that Ed just couldn’t fucking _deal._

“Something wrong, love?”

“I—I—“ Ed breathed, chest tight, and he couldn’t _breathe_ , and his mouth moved, gaping like a fish.  He could feel the burn on his cheeks, _hated_ it when he got so overwhelmed and flustered, knew he had to look ridiculously silly—

“Tell me, Edward.”  Roy’s voice was low and commanding, sending both a low rumble and quick shivers through his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Ed found himself breathing.

With the slightest exhalation that might have been a fond chuckle, Roy tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips to Ed’s, kissing him sweetly, and Ed felt his eyelids flutter closed as he worked his fingers up into the soft hair at the nape of Roy’s neck.

Roy eventually tugged Ed up, slowly breaking the kiss, and when Ed blinked dazedly up at him, he leaned in, pulling Ed close and bowing his head down to press their foreheads together.

And as they swayed to the music, arms wrapped around each other, chests pressed close, faces less than a breath apart, Ed allowed himself to slowly smile.

—

Jean’s chest was frozen, eyes wide, hand raised in a fist to knock, as he stared at the inches-wide opening between the wall and the mostly-closed door.

Mustang and Ed were staring, besotted, into each others’ eyes, arms wrapped around each other, Mustang holding Ed as if he were the most precious thing in the world.  And damn, Jean had never seen Ed look at _anyone_ like that.

But—god, god, he had seen something he _knew_ he shouldn’t have—the kiss, this dance, and shit, this changed a _world_ of things about the chief, and how the hell was he supposed to keep this a secret, especially from Kain?  They were doing _him_ the courtesy of not going about and blabbing, and he knew that if they were outed, then they’d get a whole hell of a lot more shit than he and Kain would.

So—he had to keep quiet.  But honestly, better that they don’t know _he_ knew, otherwise it’d cause a whole hell of a lot of problems—so, most important, what to do _now?_

He tiptoed back carefully, doing his best not to make a sound, until he was several feet from the door.  When he was far enough not to be even close to being able to see anything, he cleared his throat, then coughed, walking forward again, but this time much more loudly.

“Back, guys,” he called, still heading towards the door, and when he knocked on it and nudged it open, the two of them were apart again, Ed lounging back against the desk, and Roy fixing his hair again.  Shit.

“So, uh, ready to go again?” he asked, brightly.  The faster he learned, the faster he could get out of here and leave the two of them alone to do… whatever.

—

Five days later, Jean staggered into the apartment he shared with Kain with a groan.  A longass day followed by a longass lesson, all while trying _not_ to think about how the two instructors were kissing—and probably more besides, gross—when no one else was around.

It was _weird_ , okay?  And he knew that Ed would rather be punched in the face (or do the punching) than to be the recipient of romantic advice, especially from Jean (which was a little unfair, honestly; he clearly had a functioning relationship now).  Still, he couldn’t help but worry that Ed had gotten himself in over his head: Roy had his reputation, after all, and some of it was for non-political reasons.

But Jean had always felt a need to look out for the kid…

“Jean?”

He jumped at the noise, glancing around, wondering who—oh.  Right.  Kain.  Who lived with him.  That made a hell of a lot of sense.

“Hey.  How’re you?”

Kain watched Jean carefully, gently petting Marconi’s head.  The dog’s head was resting in Kain’s lap, but Kain was barely paying attention—Jean’s first clue that something wasn’t quite right.

“It’s you I’m worried about.”

Score one for Havoc.

“Uh, what do you mean?”

Kain shrugged, and Jean caught the uncertainty on his face.  “You’re home late, again.  This is… you haven’t been here for dinner in weeks.”

“Hey, that’s not—it’s barely been two weeks.  Not even.  And we talked about how I was gonna be late for a bit.  Mustang’s been busy—“

“Yeah, I know, I work for him too.”

Jean blinked at the tone, sharper than he would have expected from Kain.  “Well, yeah, but like I said, he’s had some, uh, confidential stuff we’ve been working on.”

“Confidential,” Kain repeated, and with the skepticism in Kain’s voice, Jean knew that he might be in a _slight_ bit of trouble.  “What kind of confidential things?”

Jean swallowed, and he glanced away.  “Well, uh, y’know.  Stuff.  That I can’t talk about.”

“Oh.”  Shit, and Kain’s lips were pressed together, pursed a little, and he looked less angry and more… _hurt._  Shit.  Jean felt like a _terrible_ boyfriend.

But it was all for a reason.  And he’d tell Kain _eventually._

“I mean, yet.  I’ll—I’m sure he’ll be fine with me talkin’ about it when we get all this crap sorted out.  And then I’ll  tell you everything, yeah?”

“Yeah.”  But the word was soft, and twisted Jean’s heart as Kain glanced away, turning all of his attention back to Marconi.

Jean sighed, then walked over to sit carefully on the other side of the couch.  “Hey, talk to me?  You’re mad.”

Kain hunched his shoulders, looking determinedly away.  “I just…”  When he finally turned back, his expression was so pitiful, Jean wanted to cry.

“Jean,” he said softly.  “You’ve been… staying after hours with Mustang.  A _lot._  And you’ve been acting weird whenever I talk about him, even when it’s _not_ about these meetings.  And the other day…”  Kain bit his lip, hunched his shoulders, and looked away again, and the conflict on his face ripped Jean’s heart right down the middle.  “I overheard him talking about… stuff.  That he had to keep secret.  Not military stuff.”  Kain took a shaky breath.  “Are you two…”

Stuff.  Secret.  Secret Ed.  Secret Ed and Roy—oh.  Oh, _shit._

“Cheating!” Jean yelped in shock.  “What?  No!  Oh, god, Kain, no, _gross._ ”  He grimaced—Roy might be devastatingly attractive, but Jean doubted that he could ever put up with him in a romantic capacity.  They would tear each other apart even as roommates.  “Shit, no.  I promise.  Hey, c’mere.”  Jean reached out to take Kain’s hand, tugging it towards him, and Kain’s gaze followed until it reached Jean’s eyes.

He lifted the hand and kissed it gently.  “I get it.  Now you’ve explained it, yeah.  I see how that looks… kind’ve suspicious.”  He stared intently back into Kain’s eyes, trying to make it clear _exactly_ how much he meant to Jean.  “But I don’t… I promise, it’s not for long.”

“It’s not?”  Though Kain’s voice was clearly reluctant, Jean could see the hope budding behind the hesitation, the eagerness to believe the words.

“No.  It’s not.”  He kissed Kain’s hand again.  “I’ll explain everything when I can, got it?  I swear.”

One of the corners of Kain’s mouth twisted up, and he tugged his hand gently away, then leaned forward to cup Jean’s face, running his thumb down the slight stubble there.  Jean closed his eyes, turning and nuzzling into it.

“Okay,” Kain breathed.  “I believe you.  Okay.”

—

The Wellingtons’ “soirée” was a _spectacular_ success.

Jean hadn’t missed Kain’s utter _delight_ when he had seen the end result of his dress, the perfectly classy jacket, buttoned properly, and, of course, his impeccable posture when escorting Kain into the manor.

By the third course, at which point Jean had used multiple different utensils, all correctly, Kain knew that something was up.  A very good something.  Jean even ate the soup properly, though not without a lot of internal bitching.

But it _had_ remained internal, which was the important part.

And there were even, Jean noticed, insufferably smug, a few familiar faces of those who liked to flaunt their snobbery whenever he attended one of these things with Kain, would always sidle over and pick at whatever mistake he had made under the guise of polite and idle conversation.  Only, this time, there _were_ no mistakes to pick at, and Jean could tell from the sulking glances in their direction that they knew damn well how they had been bested.

Well, now he was _really_ gonna give them a show.

Jean held his hand gallantly out to Kain, who glanced over in surprise.  “May I have this dance?”

Kain blinked at him, caution on his face.  Jean knew that Kain enjoyed dancing, but they had both decided, given Jean’s lack of skill in the area, that they would avoid it.  He probably thought Jean had it in his head to try and show up the aforementioned individuals, blinded by his cockiness into trying to do something he couldn’t.  Little did Kain know.

Well, he wasn’t technically wrong about all of it.  But Jean did know what he was doing.

“C’mon.  It’ll be fun.”

Kain snorted in a way that Roy had told Jean never to do in polite company—but hey, Kain was a lot cuter than Jean when he did it.  But he did take Jean’s hand, and he did let Jean lead him onto the floor.

And then Jean pulled him along and started to lead him to the music.

Kain’s expression of shock and delight made all of this worth it.   _All_ of this.  “Where did this come from?” Kain asked, breathless and beaming.

“Top secret confidential lessons with a general,” Jean murmured back, eyes twinkling.

Kain’s delight was palpable, his own eyes shining.  “You—Jean!  You didn’t!”

“I did.”  He grinned.  “And not too shabby, huh?”

“Not at all!” Kain laughed.  They waltzed through the final bars of the current song, and Kain’s grin faded.  “I… I’m sorry, though, for assuming…”

“Hey, hey.”  Jean jumped on _that_ quickly, as quickly as he had changed the dance steps to the tune now playing.  It was livelier now—hopefully, it would cheer Kain up.  “Don’t you even worry about it.  I get it; I was actin’ all weird and suspicious, and… well, as for the other thing, about that person Mustang’s keepin’ secret, I kinda found out about it.  Which is why I was all…”

“And you didn’t feel like you should tell his secret.”

Jean relaxed at the understanding tone in Kain’s voice.  “Yeah.  I mean, he figured us for a couple, and he’s keepin’ quiet about that, so…”

“You wanted to respect him.”  Kain beamed up at Jean.  “I understand.”

Jean smiled fondly back down at him and executed the next turn in the dance, and then…

Holding Kain firmly, he bent over, dipping him backwards in a perfect maneuver, channeling all of his practice into the one movement and smirking down at him.

_Success._  Kain’s face promptly turned a bright red, staring up at Jean in shock.  Of course, Jean couldn’t pass on _that_ opportunity, so he bent in a little further, tugged Kain in a little closer, and then kissed him deeply.

Jean might have deviated a little from Mustang’s script, but the result was even more rewarding.  Kain gasped, winding his arms around Jean’s neck and kissing back.

When they finally broke away, Kain stumbled slightly as Jean resumed the dance, pleased as a peach.

When it ended, Jean escorted Kain off to the side of the room.  They fell in together, laughing.

“If that’s the result of you staying late after work, feel free to miss as much dinner as you’d like.”

Jean chuckled, bending down to press his lips to Kain’s forehead.

“And miss your company?  Not a chance.”

They could dance more later.  Right now, Jean just wanted to feel Kain’s hand in his.


End file.
